


An Exercise in Aesthetics

by miss_grey



Category: Original Work
Genre: Apocalypse, Battle, Coffee Shops, Demons, Royalty, Snow, Winter, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of daily prompts so that I can exercise some of my creative energy in a way that is not related to fandom.  Please enjoy as I pour my heart and soul onto the paper via words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Staying Warm in a Snowstorm

**Author's Note:**

> I've spent a lot of time in the last few years writing fanfiction, and I love it, I do. But there are other stories I want to tell, and other musings I feel the need to put down on paper. So here goes.
> 
> This one is for my muse.

The cafe was bathed in a warm yellow light, the kind of light that softened the features of the people within, and almost seemed to melt into the walls.  Soft music played in the background, just barely heard over the murmur of friendly voices.  It was a contrast to the world outside, seen through the bared glass windows.  

Darkness had fallen; the streets were highlighted only by the even darker forest beyond that cut jagged shadows on the horizon.  Outside, the world was hushed by the softly falling snow–it had been falling just long enough to cover the ground and dampen the sounds of voices echoing from inside the coffee shop.

He sat at a table by himself, pulled up close to one of the windows so that he could watch the tiny flakes flutter by outside.  He was picturesque all by himself, framed in such a way.  His thick jacket hung on the back of his chair, leaving him exposed to the soft lighting of the cafe in just his jeans, boots, and a black t-shirt that complemented his black hair, which curled against the pale nape of his neck and hung just slightly in his eyes.  He wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee that the barista had just delivered to him.  He inhaled the scent of rich, dark coffee and hints of vanilla and soaked up the heat of the liquid through the smooth polka-dotted ceramic.  

And in that moment, he was content.


	2. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

 

 

The world was eerily silent.  Ash fell from the sky like snow, dusting the streets in a pallet of grays.  

A young girl made her way down the center of a quiet, otherwise abandoned street; she was a sharp contrast of color, of hope in a world turned bleak.  She was perhaps nine or ten, old enough that her limbs were beginning to lengthen into those of an adolescent, but still young enough that she should have been worried walking all alone.  She wore a yellow dress that somehow managed to remain pristine in the ashfall; a belt of daisies was cinched at her waist, and her skirt flared out in layers of daffodil tulle.  White stockings clung to her legs until they disappeared into a pair of shiny black mary janes.  Her dark, curly hair hung loose and flowed over her thin shoulders and down her back.  She held her head high, her brown eyes big and innocent in her young face.

Behind her, the city burned.  Flames reached high into the sky and smoke blocked out the sun.  

The girl walked softly, and she brought the end with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I love to write about the end times.


	3. A Lonely Child Summons the Most Powerful and Notorious Demonic Being in the Universe to Be Her Friend

 

 

The girl sat back from the guttering candles, trembling and heaving deep breaths, still winded from the powerful magic she had wrought.  Blood dripped lazily from her palms, but she ignored it and the sharp sting from the knife.  Her heart thudded in anticipation: this was it–he was coming–the dark one, the destroyer of worlds.

The door across the room creaked open slowly, and light poured in, but it was cut sharply, abruptly, but the impenetrably dark silhouette that materialized there.  

She sucked in a breath, and held it, afraid to exhale.

The figure in the door cast no shadow of his own.

Suddenly, the intensity of the moment was broken by a deep chuckle.  The girl sighed in relief, and whispered in awe: “Finally, it’s you….”

The dark one, the destroyer of worlds, her protector, and her friend.  

It had been too long.


	4. A Prince is Crowned King While Still an Adolescent

 

 

All of his muscles quivered as he slumped to the ground, his knees hitting the bloody grass with a thud.  He bowed his head, eyes closed, and just  _breathed_ for a moment.  Sweat dripped down his face, and soaked his clothes so that they clung to him.  His hands were battered and bloody, his knuckles torn from where he’d been forced to use them in a moment of desperation.  Even so, he refused to let go of the weapon that he’d fought so hard to retain–the sword of his fallen father, which he’d taken from his lifeless body.  With it, he’d sworn to avenge his family, and he had.  After everything, he had.

He raised his ice blue eyes to take in the bloody field before him, and the remaining warriors who trudged across it to tend to the wounded.  They were all worn and weary, and barely on their feet.

Slowly, despite his shaking, he pushed himself to his feet and wiped his brow.  He was king now.  He had work to do.


	5. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the 1 word tumblr prompt "Broken"

 

 

It’s a lesson that my grandfather shared with me; then my uncle; then my mom.  

We were tilling the garden by hand, when the shovel head fell off.  My grandfather just smiled and shook his head, and said “Don’t worry, we can fix that.”  And then we did.

My uncle looked at the smashed pieces of the radio, what was left after a science project had failed. I held my tears back, because I didn’t want to disappoint him any more than I had.  He didn’t mention the tears—we were like that—but he hugged me and said “It’s okay… we can still use the parts for something else.  Go get the book—we’ll need it.”  It wasn’t what we set out to do, but twenty years later, I still remember it.

My mom and I climbed up on the roof together, the ladder shaking under our feet, but we trusted the angle.  It was 104 degrees out and the cooler broke, and it was just us and my little sister. “Do you know how to fix it?”  I asked my mom.  She shrugged and said “We’ll figure it out.”  And we did.  Because we always do.

They taught me that just because something’s broken doesn’t mean it’s done.  Breaking is a challenge, an opportunity, a commitment.  They taught me not to give up on things.  They taught me the beauty of hard work—sweat and blood and ingenuity.  They taught me to be grateful for what I had, because it was never a guarantee.  They taught me to never accept defeat—there’s no such thing—we’ve only ever lost when we stop trying.  They taught me that broken things can be fixed, can be useful, can be beautiful still.  They smiled and hugged me and loved me so honestly and simply.  And they taught me that broken things can also heal.


	6. Fights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the 1 word tumblr prompt "Fights"

 

 

God, I fight like I live—it’s the same damn thing.  Holding on, pushing forward, grasping for the last fucking breath, always.  It hurts, hell yeah, it hurts—the broken rib, dislocated jaw, the moment my feet went out from under me and then there was darkness. There’s blood.  There’s gotta be blood.  If there’s no blood, it’s not a real fight at all.  And god, does it feel good to slam my fist into every fucking thing that tries to stop me—I like to feel the way it jars my arm and stings like hell, and the swell of beaded blood is a blessing.  And I like it when they hit me, when they knock me down, and hell, even when they kick me, because then it means more when I get back up.  Heart pounding, blood rushing, my breath is background music.  Bruises bloom, joints pop, my head snaps back on the punch.  I keep coming back for more.  Because fighting’s not about winning, it’s about fighting.  The fight, the god-damn will to go on, is what matters when everything else falls apart.  And the pain, the jolt of resistance that shakes up my arm—it reminds me that I’m still fighting.  And sometimes, that’s enough.


	7. Candle Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the 1 word tumblr prompt "candlelight"

 

 

The light of a hundred or more candles flickers against the wall, illuminating and shadowing, dancing with the darkness.  Pressing, and retreating.  They are perfect harmony.  A breeze wafts through the pillars, weaving, a deep breath exhaled through the doors. A welcome gust of promised rain. History sings in the stones. Penitents bow their heads against hands, knees scrape stone, their prayers are murmured in fervent Latin, accompanied by the steady click of rosary beads.  The candles flicker, speaking, if you know the tongue.  They carry hope in their fire, and messages that drift up, up, up, on their smoke when they are snuffed.  This is holy ground.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make me happy, and I hope my writing makes you happy :) If it does, let me know, please?
> 
> If you really enjoyed, you could decide to buy me a coffee here: http://ko-fi.com/A3479Y5


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